


Once more ere thou hate me

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Bittersweet, Bondage, Frottage, Hatesex, Intercrural Sex, Irresponsible Use of Magic, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Missing Scene, Orgasm Denial, Unnegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27421189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: Strange comes back to London in Feburary 1816, grieving, lonely, and not quite himself. Is it any wonder he can't resist one last argument with Mr Norrell?
Relationships: Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Once more ere thou hate me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwelveLeagues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/gifts).



> So this is my first Yuletide. Thank you, TwelveLeagues, because your the things you listed as likes are some of my favorite things to write, so this was a lot of fun! I was inspired by your prompt about arguing and particularly about Strange coming back to argue after the breakup, and I hope I've done it justice!

February 1816

The house in Hanover-square was rarely empty.

The truth of rich men's house, of course, is that they are never really empty even when they do not contain the rich man or any of his important friends. A house that is truly alone very rapidly loses its character. Unheeded, it fades away into a mere ghost of a building. The untrod floors become uneven; the cold stone cracks; the walls, buffeted by wind with no on eto hold them up, lean slowly in on themselves like a man growing shorter as he ages. 

A rich man may have many houses, and may only live in one at a time; yet the others must have guardians. And even the loneliest hermit must have servants, if he wishes to live in a modern, comfortable manner.

Mr Norrell wished to live in a modern, comfortable manner. Both his houses were always staffed. But even disregarding servants (so lowly, so insignificant, until you had none, or still worse, a bad one!) Mr Norrell had not been truly alone for many years. Ministers and other important personages were continually knocking upon his door to consult him on matters of grave national importance. Mr Lascelles frequently visited, giving Mr Norrell sage advice on what he considered the best way to manage English magic. Childermass -- a servant, to be sure, but not quite enough of one to fail to be a presence -- was in and out at all hours, conducting Mr Norrell's business.

Yes, the house in Hanover-square was rarely empty.

And yet, Mr Norrell was as alone as he had ever been.

-

It was perhaps the most insignificant of Mr Norrell's great regrets that, since coming to London, he had rarely been allowed to go to bed at the time he wished. The house had been locked up, the guests shooed off to their homes, and yet there was still more work to do. He had spells to write and magic to work.

He pushed open the doors to the library, thinking of the particulars of a passage in Heather-Gray that he thought might contain an inkling of the answer, though every one knew that Heather-Gray was the worst sort of nonsense. Had he Heather-Gray in London? He did not think it had been consigned to Hurtfew; what a nuisance if it had been. He--

As he stepped into the library, a deep unease swept through his heart. 

Someone had broken the wards in the library.

Since only a magician could do this, Mr Norrell had little doubt on who it had been. Was he still here? Mr Norrell was too frozen to call out the name on the tip of his tongue, too frozen to step forward, too frozen to do anything except speak a tentative "Hello?"

He was not sure whether it was fear or hope that froze him.

There was a moment of silence where he dared think he was alone. And then, a familiar sigh.

"I knew you would come along eventually," said Strange conversationally, as though he was merely discussing the inevitability of rain this afternoon.

Mr Norrell whispered, "After all, it is my library."

"So it is."

"And I had wards on it."

"Did you think that would do any good? You were the one who taught me to make wards. You ought to have known I would be able to break yours."

Mr Norrell took an involuntary half-step forward, lured by Strange's voice yet scarcely hearing the words. Past the doors, he could see Strange at last. He was in mourning weeds, of course; it had scarcely been two months. Every one had said it was shocking that he was in London so early, but Mr Norrell had hoped -- well. Strange did not look quite himself, in any case. It was partly the lack of care with which he had completed his toilet; every item, from his shoes to his neckcloth, was perfectly correct, but individually they made a whole which felt subtly discordant, as though he had not taken any care with matching them. His hair was not quite tidy, and it had more grey in it than Mr Norrell thought was appropriate for a man of Strange's few years.

But more than the hair or the clothing, what was not quite right was Strange's face. There was something gone from it that Mr Norrell had never noticed before, some quality of life or mischief or joy. Without it, Strange looked -- distracted. As though he was in a state of thinking about something else so permanent that it was immediately obvious to the viewer. A something else, moreover, that wearied him deeply.

"But then," continued Strange, in an offhand kind of way, "There is no one else to make them for you, is there. You have made yourself utterly alone. You have not taught, nor shared, with anyone other than me."

"English magic--" began Mr Norrell, as he so often did.

"Damn English magic and damn what it has taken from me," said Strange. His voice was still pleasant, but it was trembling. For a moment his face became even emptier.

"I heard," began Mr Norrell tentatively, and then stopt. Some very long buried instinct told him that saying 'I heard of your wife's death' would perhaps make Strange a little overwrought. But he did not know what words would not. He had no practice in consoling a friend, still less an enemy, and less yet someone who had been both. A great wave of loss rose in him. It had once been so easy to talk to Strange, so natural. 

A long silence fell between them, the longer because Mr Norrell did not know what Strange was here for. He did not know if Strange meant to attack him, or to make friends with him again, or simply to tell him that Mrs Strange was dead. An uneasy awareness of Strange's pride told him that the second was unlikely, and strained relations suggested that if it was the third, Strange would blame him for the death.

'But then', Mr Norrell thought, 'There was nothing magical about her death, was there?' 

At long last, he ventured: "The winter air is very dangerous, I have always thought."

Strange began to laugh. It quickly became high-pitched and reckless, quite unlike his usual self, and for a moment Mr Norrell felt afraid. But Strange buried his face in his hands, and gradually the laughter subsided. He said, "You haven't changed."

"Why should I?" said Mr Norrell, uncomfortably. 

"Why indeed," said Strange half to himself. There was something in his tone Mr Norrell disliked, but he could not quite tell what it was. 

On the back of the uneasiness this rose in him, Mr Norrell snapped, "Why have you come here?"

"I don't know," said Strange. "I have so many friends, and all of them would comfort me. Yet here I am with you, who will not. Indeed, you are my enemy, I suppose. And yet--"

The silence lay again between them.

"Perhaps it is because I do not want to be consoled," said Strange, almost under his breath. He straightened a little. "Mr Norrell, what is your opinion of Ormskirk's spell for dispelling illusions?"

"What?" said Mr Norrell, distracted from forebodings of Strange's presence. Surely Strange had not come to consult him on magic. He took a few steps forward to peer at Strange, but he did not look mad. "Surely we settled that. There is very little value in Ormskirk -- he copies his spells with no understanding at all. The Argentines--"

"I do not agree," said Strange, settling back into the chair. It was, Mr Norrell noticed, the chair he himself favored, closest to the fire, rather than the chair Strange would have sat at ordinarily. "I think there is much more good to be found in Ormskirk than you give credit for. Do you remember when I went to try and cure the King of his madness?"

"Of course. I remember you told me you tried that spell."

"It did nothing for the King's madness, to be sure, but I believe it protected me from enchantment."

"I have never heard that dispelling illusions could guard against harm."

"I do not mean it in the sense that your wards have protective value -- such as they do. It is true that fairies, for example, often use illusion in stealing away their victims, is that not so?"

Despite himself, Mr Norrell settled in to lecture. "Of course. There are many cases in the literature. It was long said that the fairy-road by Appleby in Westmorland, for instance, would tempt visitors to walk down it by shewing them beautiful banquets nearly but not quite out of sight. There was music, and smells of fresh bread and roasting meat. Not that I believe the roads themselves created these visions, although that is what is commonly said today. No, doubtless there was a fairy who wished to bring Christians to his halls."

"The illusions can involve smell and sound as well as sight, then. And taste?"

"Ah! fairies can ensnare all the senses. That is one of the things that makes their magic so dangerous. Our powers of phantasy are only a shadow of what they can do. Our rain-ships, for example, may _look_ convincing from afar, but they do not _feel_ like wood. A fairy of great power could create a vision of ships that would not only look but smell, sound, and feel like a ship. And of course there are tales of feasts that taste of whatever the victim likes best, which turn out in the morning to have been merely dust and grass."

"Is there a fairy who could work such wonders?"

Mr Norrell felt a trace of nerves. "The fairy-servants of John Uskglass had great powers, of course, but I have not heard that any other magician had servants of such a class. Doubtless the creature who could weave such enchantments would be a great king among his people, not a vassal for an ordinary magician to call at will."

Strange shook his head a little. "A spell for dispelling illusions would protect a man from these visions, then?"

"Oh! I suppose so," said Mr Norrell. "But as to Ormskirk, have we not tried that spell many times?"

For a moment, Strange's face lit up, and he was almost his old self again. "We were far too literal. It is not a collection of ingredients to be deployed by the body, but instead by the mind. You must understand the parts as _metaphysical_ , a kind of symbolism employed by the magician to deploy his own inner _\--_ "

"Mystical nonsense!" said Mr Norrell.

"I knew you would say that. Perhaps that is why I came here. There is no one to contradict me any more, now that--" Strange blinked, and his face seemed to tremble for a moment. 

"I told you, did I not?" Mr Norrell approached the chair. "I told you that if you left me, you would have no one to talk to."

"I did not anticipate my wife dying," said Strange.

The words lay heavy as a body between them. For a moment Mr Norrell had been so carried away talking of magic again with Strange that he had almost forgotten about that. It was like a burst of icy water had splashed into his face. He thought that Arabella could not in any case have known any thing about magic, but that long-buried instinct again suggested that this would be dangerous to say aloud. 

He wanted to tell Strange that he forgave him, and that they could be friends again, and that he would shew Strange all the books he wished to see if only Strange would stay. And yet again he wanted to reprimand Strange for leaving him, to eject him from the library and vow never to speak to him again, just to see if Strange would wish to stay.

"I do wonder," said Strange. He sighed a little, and rose from his seat.

Mr Norrell felt a sudden rush of fear that Strange should leave and they should never see each other again. "Tell me what you were saying about Ormskirk," he demanded.

Strange's smile was suddenly nearly like his old self again. "I thought it was mystical nonsense."

"So it is, but I cannot contradict you properly if I do not know your thesis. Is _that_ not what you came here for?"

"I don't know," said Strange. He stepped a little closer, and Mr Norrell backed away. Strange's preoccupation had taken a different cast, and Mr Norrell began to be afraid that Strange was not quite a safe person to be around. "Do you know what they say about you in the less savoury parts of society, Mr Norrell?"

"Many untrue things, I should think," said Mr Norrell. He began to marshal defenses. The fairy had tricked him. Lady Pole had had her natural span of years restored to her and even extended. He had done his very best.

"I never thought to give the rumours very much credence. People love to sell any scandal that would bring low a successful man, particularly when he is not skilful at making friends. And you cannot deny, Mr Norrell, that you are not skillful at making friends."

"I have never had the trick of it, aside from--" 'Aside from you', thought Mr Norrell, but did not say it for fear of what Strange should say in response.

Strange took hold of his shoulders. He was not quite meeting Mr Norrell's eye, nor yet looking away from him; he was gazing at him as though he was a household object Strange had not seen a long time. He said, "But, after all, mayn't even the wildest rumour contain a grain of truth?"

"Mr Strange," began Mr Norrell.

"Oh, do be quiet for once," murmured Strange, and kissed him.

In a thousand years Mr Norrell could never have predicted this. He expected to be struck, or to be pushed, or to be shaken. It was so utterly astonishing and so very unlike Strange that for a moment Norrell decided he was, somehow, imagining the whole thing, and that Strange had not meant to kiss him at all. It must be some sort of misplaced head-butt. But it went on, and he found that his body had relaxed, and that he had closed his eyes. Strange's grip on his shoulders was loose enough that he could have slid out of it, but he decided he would not do so quite yet. Not quite yet.

Indeed, it felt far too soon when they parted. He found Strange inspecting him.

"Ah!" said Strange thoughtfully. " _That_ is what I came here for."

"Mr Strange," said Mr Norrell again, attempting and failing to be stern. He could not think of any other words than these, just at that moment. He was not even sure what he would have said if he could have found others. Whatever he had feared and whatever he had hoped, this quite surpassed both. 

"Whatever else may change in the world, I can always be sure you will have stayed the same," said Strange. "There is a sort of comfort in that."

" _You_ have not," said Mr Norrell.

"No," said Strange. "No, I don't suppose I have."

He kissed Mr Norrell again, and Mr Norrell let him. He did not know why. He ought to have told him to leave the house and never touch him again, but here was the trouble: he did not wish for this to happen. He wished to let Strange kiss him. He wished that Strange would never stop. He had tried to hate Strange, and he could never make himself do it in his heart, still less when Strange was there in person. He found himself reaching slowly up and taking hold of Strange's coat, to pull him closer. Strange breathed out slowly and tilted his head a little more, deepening the kiss. 

What a curious feeling. It had been many, many years since Mr Norrell had been kissed, and that had been a mere sketch compared to this. Strange was not just pressing their lips together but doing all sorts of additional small details, like little nips to his lower lip, that enlivened the experience. Mr Norrell felt very much more aware of his body than he usually did and the curious thing was that he enjoyed it. His body was not normally a source of pleasure to him.

Strange's hand trailed slowly down Mr Norrell's chest. Mr Norrell felt as aware of it as he would a knife, for every where it went it made him tense, but the tension was not fear. It was not fear at all. He wished he could be afraid, so that it would matter less if Strange stopt touching him, but perhaps it did not signify, because Strange was not stopping. As he touched, he manuvered them back, so that Mr Norrell was against the wall. Strange's hand came to rest on Mr Norrell's hip for a moment as he pressed Mr Norrell against the wall; then he traced his fingers across, slowly. Right above the breeches.

"Oh," said Mr Norrell, breaking off the kiss in bewilderment and a strange kind of ecstatic terror.

"Has no one ever touched you before?" said Strange. "No one has, have they. You would never let any one close enough. No one except me."

Mr Norrell's breath came through his teeth. His face felt hot. He wanted to deny it, to lie to Strange and say that he would not be the first, that Strange would scarcely even figure in his list of conquests, but he knew how unbelievable it was. He was humiliatingly aware of himself, twenty years Strange's senior, small, unprepossessing, and plain. He was humiliatingly aware of Strange's charm, of how magician-like and mysterious his smile was. Of how little like that Strange this man with his bitterness and the sharp edges of his grief unblunted was. 

"Well?" said Strange, and slid his hand against Mr Norrell's breeches. 

"Why are you doing this, damn you?" Mr Norrell burst out. Strange's hand felt so warm against him and so real that it could not possibly be a dream. He could feel, to his own horror, a traitorous stirring.

"What else am I to do?" said Strange, his voice thick with bitterness. "What else is there for me? I am alone, as you predicted, and so are you. We may as well spend the rest of our days gnawing at each other until there is nothing left."

It did not feel like gnawing away Mr Norrell. It felt like the first green things peeping out of the winter snow. It felt like Strange's touch was drawing in parts of his body that he had been too ashamed of or frightened of to acknowledge. It was not as though he had never touched himself before, but somehow the difference between his own hesitant and half-disgusted hand and Strange's sure, confident one was an unfathomable gulf. 

He closed his eyes and let himself fall back against the wall, and Strange's hand continued to explore. Mr Norrell wondered if Strange had touched a man before: he moved as though this was familiar territory to him. Mr Norrell felt a flash of jealousy at the thought. Had it been his school friends, his fellow-soldiers in the army, someone else?

Strange was kissing him again, and he had unbuttoned Mr Norrell's breeches. Through the thin linen of his drawers, his hand felt so urgently real that Mr Norrell trembled. Should he be touching Strange? A little uncertainly, he groped between them for Strange's own body, but Strange shook his head.

"I think not," he said, and murmured something beneath his breath as he pushed Mr Norrell's hands against the wall. Bindings tightened against Mr Norrell's wrists: not like ropes, set to a single point, but as though his arms were frozen in a block of stone. Mr Norrell knew the spell. He ought to have protested, but he relaxed against it. It was a relief not to have to chuse what to do. 

"That's better," said Strange. He briskly unbuttoned his own breeches, drawing out his prick. Mr Norrell had never looked upon another man's before, and though he knew it was indelicate for him to do so, he could not stop himself from staring. It was rather redder in colouring than Mr Norrell's own, already flushed though only half-hard. Mr Norrell was struck with a very sudden and undignified urge to put his mouth on it, and looked down quickly, frowning a little.

"Don't be shy," said Strange. He sounded amused. He untied the string of Mr Norrell's drawers, and drew his prick out, too. He stroked it a little, casually, watching it rouse in his hand. Mr Norrell felt an awful twist of shame, that Strange could see this and know how deeply he desired it. As if he read that shame, Strange said: "You see? If you are shy, it is bold for you."

Mr Norrell turned his head away. He thus missed Strange's next motions, only understood that he moved: and only when he felt the curious soft firmness of Strange's prick against his, against the grip of Strange's hand, did he understand that Strange had both of them in hand. When a roll of his hips and a little movement of the hand that held them -- it was a little as though he was fucking Mr Norrell, and each move sent a little tingle of pleasure through him.

Strange carried on like this. His breath felt warm against Mr Norrell's ear. Every so often he would make a little noise of satisfaction that made Mr Norrell's face heat, and this somehow intensified the pleasure of the movement. It should not, Mr Norrell thought, have been so different from his own hand. But something about Strange's presence, how magnetically drawn he felt to Strange, the fact that he did not know what would come next -- and the movement went on and on until he could hardly bear it.

"Mr Strange," said Mr Norrell, failing to speak with composure and dignity. "I-- I do not believe I can--" 

"Oh, no," said Strange. He smiled a little wickedly. "I don't mean for this to be over so soon." He made a gesture, and spoke a word, and Mr Norrell gasped as he felt the something tightening itself around the base of his cock, the same as it had around his arms. He felt he could not have spent if he wanted to. 

"That is _not_ ," he said rather unsteadily, "an acknowledged use of Fenwick's Bindings of Ivy."

"You must admit it is innovative," said Strange. The smile was so familiar and so charming, so similar to Strange's face when they were sitting in chairs and quietly talking of magic. It was rather incongruous to see it with their cocks pressed together, Mr Norrell's throbbing with more feeling than it really ought to have had. Someone had done magic on him. _Strange_ had done magic on him. On his most intimate parts.

"But not respectable," said Mr Norrell. He wiggled his hips a little, for he wanted Strange to stroke him. "Are you not ashamed to put magic to such degraded purposes?"

"It is not very respectable for you to be standing here with your prick begging to be touched," said Strange. "Look at you. Look at how hard you are. How long have you needed this?"

Mr Norrell squirmed in discomfort. "You are the one who put me in this position, so I should think the shame is still yours."

"As though you protested. Have you thought about it before? Did you daydream about my hand on you when you taught me Sutton-Grove? Did you ever feel yourself growing hard beneath the table at the thought of my mouth on you?"

Mr Norrell made a vague noise of protest. He had never thought those things in Strange's presence, for that would have been _quite_ disrespectful. But at night, ah! at night, the will was weak. 

Strange stroked down the length of their cocks. "Did you know that people said that? The magician of Hanover Square buggers his apprentice. I used to hate it, but may be they saw in you what I did not." He caught Mr Norrell's eye. "Or was it you who wanted to be buggered?"

Mr Norrell made a noise of anger that turned into a moan, and Strange laughed, and caught a firmer hold on them, and kept stroking. Mr Norrell thought he might spend, but even as he had the thought, the binding tightened and stopt him.

"I should bugger you," Strange said. "I should teach you a lesson. Have you ever been fucked before--? No, of course not, you would never let anyone so close. It's quite unlike any thing else. I fancy if I did it you would want me to do it again."

Mr Norrell felt, quite crossly, that Strange was already doing a multitude of things that Mr Norrell would like very much for him to do again, and that another one did not need to be added.

Strange let go of them, changed the angle of his hold, and thrust between Mr Norrell's clenched thighs. "Like that," he breathed, "But deeper, and far better."

"Mr Strange, I really must protest..." said Mr Norrell. He felt out of his head, as though he was not the same person he had been half an hour again. It was, he thought, a kind of magic. Like the altered states of consciousness that Stokesey had spoken of, but Stokesey had achieved them through trance and not -- this. Even Stokesey would not go so far. 

As Strange thrust between his thighs, as he felt the jolting teasing pleasure of Strange's body hot against his prick, of Strange's prick hot against his thighs, he thought of magic you could do like this. He understood the kind of forbidden magic that Sutton-Grove would never have touched, for its dirtiness and chaos. He understood that the world looked different this way, with your blood running hot. You were not exactly the same person as you were when it was cool. It was like the intense focus that descended upon Mr Norrell sometimes when he discovered a new book, that made him scarcely emerge from his library at all for days. The mind turned to one thing and one thing only, excluding all else.

It was probably bad for magic, the way a headache was...he gasped as Strange thrust against him with increased fervor for a few moments, and then slowed down, as if teasing himself with Norrell's thighs. His thoughts scattered: how much better it would feel if they only had some oil, to smooth Strange's way, so that he could slip in and out of Norrell's thighs easily, so that the nudging of his cock against Norrell's own would be slick and easy and frictionless. Very bad for magic, yes. He felt flushed through the chest, and was glad that Strange had not undressed him enough to see. 

"I would never have guessed this would be so effective at silencing you," Strange murmured into his ear. "Have you nothing to say about the magical implications of fucking someone's thighs?"

"I was thinking of them," admitted Mr Norrell. 

Strange laughed then. It sounded almost fond, and Mr Norrell wished he had not done it. It made him think of the way that Strange had used to laugh before, and the way that Strange had laughed when Mr Norrell had said about winter air, and how every thing was so awful and different, and Mr Norrell would never again sit in the library and discuss magic with Strange. 

It made him think about the fact that Strange had come to him after his wife died: a poor substitute, second best. There was no question that if Mrs Strange was alive Strange would be home with her, drinking wine at supper and talking of his book. It would have been to their marriage-bed he would have gone to, and happily, instead of the strange desperate bitter thing they were doing now.

And Mr Norrell had only his library, and his servants, and no-one but Strange, who he did not really have at all.

The character of Strange's movements shifted, as though he was close to his peak again. He reached down between them and grabbed Mr Norrell's prick. The roughness of his strokes felt torturous, and it was not very long before Mr Norrell felt the need to finish again. But the bindings tightened on him again and he could do nothing but twist and wiggle against the wall, desperate for relief. 

Strange paid him no mind, but kept stroking in time with the movements of his own cock. He seemed careless now, as if he had hit some crucial point past which he could not have stopt for all the books in the library. His hips drove against Mr Norrell, almost bruising hard, until he spent with a soft gasp. Mr Norrell felt it against his legs, filled with half revulsion and half overwhelming lust. The bindings tugged again, stopping him from following Strange over the edge. He struggled at last against the ones on his arms, too, because he wanted to reach down and touch Strange, to feel Strange's cock; Strange would be gone soon, and he would never have the chance, but they were too tight. He could not move.

Strange stepped back, and looked at him. 

"Perhaps that will teach you a lesson about slander," he said very softly. It sounded as though it was not quite what he wanted to say. Mr Norrell could not guess what other thing he might be keeping back. 

"I should think not," said Mr Norrell -- weak, but all he could think of.

Strange closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He put his clothes back in order, and looked at Mr Norrell. 

"Thank you," he said.

Mr Norrell shook his head.

Before he could recover enough to say any thing, or to call out, Strange had strode across the room, murmuring something, and as Mr Norrell tried to rouse himself to move, he had stepped into the mirror and gone.

The bindings all dissolved the instant Strange stepped into the mirror. As soon as Mr Norrell's hands were his own again he reached down to touch his prick, not even thinking of how it must look or what it would be like if someone came in at the wrong moment. All he could think of was how badly he needed to spend. He touched himself with a far rougher grip than he would have normally used, more the way Strange had touched him. It took scarcely more than a few strokes before he finished, thinking of Strange's gasps, watching the mirror Strange had gone out through.

A handkerchief, pulled from his pocket with a shaking hand, cleaned the soiled parts of his body and clothing; he would have to rinse it later. He redressed himself and collapsed into a chair.

Mr Norrell sat in the chair for a while, in a kind of thick stupor. He would have to put the wards back up, he thought, and try to find a new method that Strange could not break. But somehow he did not quite feel like moving yet. Lassitude gripped him, far more than he had ever felt in his hasty nighttime experiences with his own hand. He wondered whether this was how it generally was with another person or if it was because of the magic. No one else had ever done magic on him, and certainly not like _that_. The thought sent another desperate little thrill through him.

It was chased away by the remembrance of Mrs Strange's passing. Whatever Strange had done, it had been a product of his loneliness, not of any particular desire for Mr Norrell. 

And yet, thought Mr Norrell.

And yet Strange had friends -- far more of them than Mr Norrell did. If he had wished to take a lover he could have found one, probably with much greater ease than it must have taken to penetrate Mr Norrell's wards. 

_And yet, he did not go to them,_ thought Mr Norrell. _He came to me._

They had not spoken for a year; enmity lay thick between them; and yet Strange had come to Mr Norrell. Whatever drew Mr Norrell's thoughts like a beacon to Strange, it seemed that the thread went both ways. Strange could have his bitterness; he could rage against Mr Norrell; he could vow never to speak to him again. They could try to destroy each other. But the thread would not break.

He thought that, for better or for worse, he would probably see Strange again.


End file.
